Journal Prompts: A Reflection on my History with Familial Abuse

I have been using a journal for quite some time. Recently in the past year or so, I have been avidly utilizing prompts given to me by my therapist; a beautiful and rejuvenating presence herself. She gives me prompts almost weekly and if I ever need a new prompt I have them saved on Pinterest to mosey around with at whatever pace I feel led.

The journal prompts I have been given by her mostly have to deal with inner child healing as I grew up in an abusive, unstable household and have a detrimental amount of trauma as a result. This one specifically sparked quite the thought process to come flooding forth: HOW CAN I SERVE MYSELF WITH THE COMPASSION AND THE LOVE I WOULD GIVE TO MY CHILD SELF? My first piece of writing shared here is one that I am excited and a little nervous to share.

Here was my response to that harrowing prompt:

‘I need to work on grace for myself. I have so much grace for my mom and dad but now I will utilize every bit of strength to remain stable which means cutting ties with them for awhile — maybe even forever. At least until Becca Boo is heard, seen, and held. Not by them, but by me and others I have chosen as my family.

I will never allow my parents to have unsupervised visits with my future kids — why would I? My mother and my father are so different behind closed doors. I know that to a depth, some people know that to an extent, and some avoid the truth and choose to continue the course of lies.

I need to work on giving myself the same love, admiration, and respect that I do to all kiddos. Even the most intense, ‘frustrating’ situations, I have remained steady. Even in all different levels of instability, I choose to be, to the best of my ability, stability for kiddos. So now I get to look at myself as I do any kiddo. I am still that kid at heart and more ways, at mind.

One of my favorite trips because it was with people who my parents had to be on their best behavior around.

I exist in a child like state and now I am choosing to re-parent myself as I should’ve been parented my whole twenty five years by the adults who call me daughter.

I am my own daughter and I always have been. I have been unsafe with myself, but when kids raise kids they turn out rather tarnished.

Kids raising kids. My parents love to proudly say how they waited to sleep with ‘too many’ people before settling down together. By the time my mother gave me a purity course around the age of eleven — weeks of shame and guilt — I already had the same amount of bodies as she did. Not bodies by choice; bodies by force.

Baby Becca who had already learned what rape was.

Kids raising kids. My mother and father would have screaming matches that sometimes resulted in thrown objects. Probably thrown hands too, although I am the only one I can recall being hit across rooms.

Kids raising kids. Screaming matches were something I began engaging in with my mother throughout middle school because I was an actual child and I was so fucking done with the abuse. My mother loved when I fought with her — she admitted that to me; said it gave her a rush of adrenaline.

Kids raising kids. But who raised me dad? Who raised me mom? I found a sanctuary in so many adults — something that would often get me in even more trouble. ‘You better not fucking talk about me’ but oh how I wish I would’ve. Oh how I wish I could’ve left your sticky entrapment years ago. You are a citronella lamp and all the bugs that truly come into your light get zapped. I keep trying to guide my sister away but she is still suckling on the teat of sorrow, hoping that the teat is not still attached to the monstrosity and poison of our family. Hoping that what she KNOWS already isn’t true.

I know she thinks that she is my keeper; I am hers. I have been since childhood. I love her so dearly; it hurts to see her consistently appease my parents but I know that is her trauma response as well.

My fear of abandonment does not live in the absence of people I loved, but in the presence of those I feared. I no longer fear them — in fact I bet they fear me.

Kids raising kids. But look at me mother! Look at me father! I am an adult now — I know you two don’t know how to be one, but I am doing the hard work so my kids do not have to be raised by kids. Someday, they may never know you, but I will do my best to share why at an appropriate age and to not trauma dump on babies — I know that’s your specialty with kids, but not mine.

My specialty with kids is to allow them to feel seen, to feel heard, to feel supported. My specialty is crafts and encouraging independence. Not getting upset when there are simple spills, but coaxing them to clean up alongside me. My specialty is game nights — ones without anger or exclusion, but instead with belly laughter. My specialty is to observe them for every sign of abuse (thanks for all the information!) and not waver; my gut exists because of you and I trust it more than I will ever trust you. But even with my existential amount of sorrow, I never trauma dump on them. I only dump joy, love, and encouragement.

I HAVE FEAR IN BECOMING A MOTHER // I THINK I’LL BECOME A MOM INSTEAD

Bipolar Badass. Borderline Badass. Breaking away from abusive parents BADASS.